


Simple Names

by incorrectbatfam



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incorrectbatfam/pseuds/incorrectbatfam
Summary: “You good to go?”(AKA every fifth-grade romance ever)
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 225





	Simple Names

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wisdom_walks_alone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdom_walks_alone/gifts).



> The title comes from the song “Everything Has Changed” by Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. Likewise, the plot was inspired by its music video.
> 
> The book referenced in this story is “Bridge to Terabithia” by Katherine Paterson.
> 
> Also, Damian and Jon are the same age.

“You good to go?”

Jon double-checked his backpack and the gift bag holding all twenty-five Valentine’s cards. He gave a thumbs-up.

“Good,” said the man. “And don’t forget to zip your jacket; it’s cold out. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad!”

Jon zipped his jacket and hopped out of the car. The chill nipped his ears like birds at a feeder. Like the many yesterdays before, he joined the sea of children trickling into the stout brick building. He smiled at a pair of kindergarteners half his size sprinting by, hand-in-hand, their wet boots making little _pitter-patters_ on the pavement. 

And like always, Jon located his locker— _Kent_ , Locker Number 2015—and inputted his combination. Valentine’s cards wouldn’t be exchanged until later, so he hung the bag by its strings next to his coat.

Plopping his things onto his desk, the first thing Jon noticed was a spiky-haired boy talking to the teacher. The second thing he noticed was that the boy looked like the people Jon’s parents worked with—a black turtleneck sweater with beige pants and a coffee cup in one hand. Jon knew everyone else in his homeroom, so this boy must be new.

The teacher pointed in Jon’s direction. It took him a second to realize that they were looking at the empty desk across from him. Jon flashed his brightest smile and waved.

“Hiya!” he chirped. “What’s your name?”

“Damian,” the boy answered flatly, opening the desk and unloading the brand-new supplies from his backpack.

Jon rested his chin in his hands, legs swinging underneath the desk. “Nice to meet you, Damian! I’m Jon. So, where are you from?” 

Damian scoffed as he stacked his notebooks. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just ‘cause,” said Jon. 

“Gotham.”

“Ooh, I’ve heard of Gotham!” Jon replied. “My dad went there once to interview some people from the Wayne Foundation. What’s it like?”

“Horrible.”

“What was your old school like?”

“Must you ask so many questions?” Damian snapped. “Just be quiet and let me fulfill this godawful obligation in peace.”

That was enough to silence Jon… for about thirty seconds. Then he asked, “What does ‘obligation’ mean?”

Damian raised his hand. “Miss, I request a seating change.”

The teacher looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Damian, but that’s the only spot we have left.”

Grumbling under his breath, Damian sank into his chair and pulled out a sketchbook the size of two basketballs stacked together. Jon opened his mouth, but a dagger-like glare from Damian forced it back shut.

Once the other kids filed in and the bell rang and the principal read the morning announcements over the intercom, the teacher said, “Everyone, please open your math books to page sixty-nine.”

A few kids sniggered, though Jon wasn’t sure why.

“Today we’ll be learning about decimals. Decimals are another way to write fractions; they’re written like this…”

As the teacher spoke, Jon peered up from the workbook only to find, to his astonishment, that Damian hadn’t even opened his. Rather, he was more focused on outlining circles and trapezoids, stacked to look like a block person.

Jon’s eyebrows scrunched. “You’re supposed to be paying attention, Damian!”

Damian rolled his eyes. “I am far above your mediocre arithmetic standards. I am only here until I can test into the advanced class next week.”

“You use a lot of big words,” Jon commented. “You’re like a computer.”

“ _Tt_.”

Jon leaned over and asked, “What’cha drawing?”

Damian closed the sketchbook with ninja-like speed. “None of your business.”

After math, the teacher gave the fifth-graders a five-minute break. Some got up and stretched; others raced to the water fountain, forming a line longer than the ones at Disneyland; the once-quiet room exploded in chatter. Jon ignored the kids glancing in his direction—they were probably just getting a better look at Damian.

“So,” Jon began, “what other things do you like? Besides art.”

Damian responded, “Why are you still talking to me?”

“‘Cause I wanna be friends,” Jon answered in a ‘duh’ tone. “You seem… um… interesting. But interesting’s good! It’s, well, _interesting_. It’s better than disinteresting.”

“‘Uninteresting,’” Damian corrected. “What class do we have next?”

“Oh, um, it’s Thursday so… language arts.”

“You mean English?”

“I guess?” Jon scratched the back of his head. “But we don’t call it English till high school—like, my cousin’s in the college-level class ‘cause she’s always helping my mom and dad edit their articles so she can do writing and stuff real good.”

“You talk a lot,” Damian remarked.

“Thanks! You talk super fancy. It’s cool,” Jon said, leaning forward. “What’s, like, the absolutely most biggest and awesomest word you know?”

“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. It is a lung disease contracted from inhaling fine volcanic particles.”

“Pneumo—” Jon shook his head; he wasn’t even going to try and pronounce _that_. “What’s your favorite word?”

Damian was about to answer when the teacher called the class’s attention.

“What’cha drawing?” Jon asked.

Damian scoffed. “You already asked me this and my answer is still the same: none of your business.”

“But that was in math,” said Jon. “Now it’s art class. That’s different.”

“No, it’s not,” Damian said. “Art is art.”

Seated around paint-splattered tables, draped in paint-splattered aprons, paint-splattered children ran their brushes over canvases, blues and reds and greens muddling together in blobs that were then labeled “Mommy” and “Elephant on a bike”. One of the kids was cutting out pink paper hearts—either she couldn’t get store-bought Valentines or she left them at home. A lightbulb flicked on in Jon’s head.

“Be right back,” he said.

Damian groaned, “I hope not.”

Jon began rooting through the bins full of construction paper, markers, and glitter glue. Unsure of what he was looking for, he scooped everything up and found an empty spot at the end of the table. Thankfully, no one bothered him, other than the art teacher stopping to pay generic compliments. Damian was fully immersed in his sketching, ignoring Jon as the latter began cutting out designs and pouring ample red glitter on top. Jon wished he could get closer so he could talk to Damian, but the posters around the room cautioning him to leave room between people squashed that idea.

He signed his name at the bottom right as the lunch bell rang. Instead of dashing to the bathroom to wash his hands and get to the cafeteria first like he normally would, he lingered behind, waiting for Damian to brush the eraser shavings from his drawing and tuck the sketchbook neatly away. He could make out the color black and something that looked like hair, but beyond that Jon had no clue.

“Why are you still here?” Damian asked, less accusingly and more confused.

“I’m waiting for my friend, _duh_ ,” said Jon.

Damian glanced around the empty room. “The art teacher?”

Jon giggled. “You’re funny, Dami. That’s my new nickname for you, ‘cause friends always give each other nicknames.”

“ _Tt_.”

“Also, I don’t need to wait in line—my mom always packs my lunch,” Jon added. “What about you?”

“My family members would throw a fit if they learned that I was eating the school’s garbage,” Damian sniffed. “My mother and butler packed my meal.”

“Sweet! We can find a table together. Also, you have a butler?!? That’s, like, the coolest thing ever!”

Jon would’ve slammed face-first into the door if it wasn’t for Damian propping it open with one foot.

“ _Tt_. You need to be more careful.”

“That’s why I have a friend, so I won’t end up squished like a pancake like Tom from ‘Tom and Jerry’.”

In the cafeteria, they slid into a pair of corner seats. As Jon fished a peanut butter sandwich out of his brown bag, Damian asked, “Don’t you have any other friends?”

Jon paused. “Nope.”

“How come?” Damian asked, unscrewing the cap off of a thermos.

Jon leaned over and pointed to the spicy-smelling yellow stuff in the container. “What’s that?”

“ _Aloo gobi_ ,” Damian answered.

“Can I try some?”

“Didn’t your parents teach you anything about germs?” Damian asked.

Jon pointed to a golden brown dough cylinder with a design etched onto it, like a logo from a kung fu movie. “What’s that?”

“Mooncake.”

His eyes lit up. “I love cake!”

“It’s different from American cake,” Damian pointed out.

But his words fell on deaf ears as Jon frantically dug through his lunch bag. “Wanna trade? I got my mom’s chocolate chip cookies.” He pulled out a Ziploc bag and slid it toward the middle of the table.

Damian crossed his arms. “Will it get you to shut up?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

They swapped and Jon took a bite. A pasty, sweet-but-not-too-sweet filling coated his tongue.

“It’s good,” Jon said, “but… what is it?”

“Red bean,” Damian answered. “A common filling in Chinese desserts.”

“Oh. Cool!” Jon shoved the rest in his mouth.

Taking the bag of cookies, Damian eyed Jon. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?” Jon asked, mouth half-full. 

“How come you do not have other friends?”

Biting his lip, Jon looked down at the table, his thumb tracing the pen scratchings that other kids left behind. “Everyone already has their own group,” he said. “They’ve all known each other since first grade, while I just moved in last summer. It’s, like, a hundred times harder to make friends in fifth grade than first.”

Damian hummed and took a bite of the cookie.

“ _‘_ _“We need a place,” she said, “just for us_ _._ _It would be so secret that we would never tell anyone in the whole world about it.”_ _’_ ”

As Damian read, Jon sat crisscrossed beside him, weaving together the long yellow-green blades of grass that he plucked from beneath the gray, slushy ice lumps. The zipper of his jacket broke when he had tried to put it on, so he leaned slightly against Damian as another chilly breeze blew. 

“ _‘She lowered her voice almost to a whisper_ _._ _“It might be a whole secret country,” she continued, “and you and I would be the rulers of it.”_ _’_ ”

Yawning, Jon scooched closer. The after-lunch sleepies were catching up to him and Damian’s voice was the perfect lullaby, drowning out the squeaky swingsets and the general clamor of the playground. Jon wasn’t sure if it was in his head or if their gloved fingers were on top of each other, but his eyelids were too heavy to spare a glance.

He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he felt a nudge on his shoulder.

“Recess is over,” Damian said. “Everyone went inside.”

He got up and offered a hand to Jon. Jon didn’t expect Damian to pull so hard, and so Jon wound up stumbling into the other boy. Pain shot through Jon’s skull when their foreheads bonked.

“I’m so sorry!” Jon exclaimed, rubbing his head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Damian said.

“Good, ‘cause I—” 

The greenness of Damian’s eyes struck Jon like a baseball bat. The spikes in his irises were like sword blades, but they danced like pine trees swaying in a storm. And there was a certain sharpness to the edges, like an emerald cut by the finest machinery, but nothing cold or frightening—no, not at all.

“You… what?” Damian asked, yanking Jon out of his thoughts.

Jon shook his head. “Never mind. I forgot what I was gonna say.”

“ _Tt_ , of course.”

The students were already exchanging cards by the time Damian and Jon returned to class. Piled on Jon’s desk were Target-quality cards with different themes—cars, unicorns, ninja turtles—and pieces of candy taped to them (a few of them spelled Jon’s name wrong). Damian’s desk was empty.

“Dami…”

Damian brushed him off. “It’s fine. I didn’t expect any—it’s my first day. I do not need them anyway.”

Biting his lip, Jon excused himself. He snatched a hall pass from the teacher's desk and slipped into the empty hall. 

_Locker Number 2015_.

He inputted the combination and grabbed the bag of Valentines and his art project.

While Damian was sketching again (seriously, what was he drawing?), Jon plucked the lollipops and candy bars from his pile and tied them together with a rubber band. Either Damian didn’t notice it happening right in front of him or he pretended not to. 

Jon cleared his throat. “Damian?”

Damian glanced up. 

Holding out the candy bouquet and the glitter-soaked project, Jon exclaimed, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Perplexed, Damian pointed to himself. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Jon replied. “I didn’t want you to feel left out so…”

“Thank you.” Damian nodded curtly and accepted the gift.

As Jon turned to pass the rest of the Valentines out, he swore he caught the faintest trace of a smile on Damian’s face. 

When he placed the last store-bought Valentine on a girl’s desk, she asked loudly, “Are you and Damian boyfriends?”

Jon blinked, caught off guard by both the question and the two dozen eyes suddenly trained on him. “What makes you say that?”

“‘Cause you gave him a different Valentine than everyone else,” she said matter-of-factly, “and he didn’t say no. _And_ you gave him all your candy. That means you like-like each other. So are you boyfriends?”

Jon shrugged. “I dunno. Damian, are we boyfriends?”

“Yes, yes, sure,” Damian waved, still focused on his artwork.

Beaming, Jon proudly answered, “We’re boyfriends!”

The end of the day rolled around. Jon was at his locker, organizing his homework into colored folders. He didn’t notice Damian approaching until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Dami! What’s up?”

Instead of answering, Damian shoved a rolled-up piece of cream-colored paper into Jon’s arms.

“What’s this?” Jon asked. “The Constitution?”

Damian scoffed. “Open it.”

Jon unrolled the dense paper. His eyes widened.

Standing tall, almost like a superhero, was… well… _him_. His hair was swept to the side by an imaginary breeze and a cape billowed behind him. Delicate color pencil strokes highlighted every shadow and clothing crease. Tying it together like a ribbon was a black ink outline. 

The neat cursive at the bottom read: _“For my habibi.”_

Jon threw his arms around Damian. “I love it!”

“Good,” said Damian. “It was not ready for the class exchange and I wanted to give you only the best. I added the message last-minute, since custom dictates that we are a romantic item.”

Jon rolled the drawing back up and slipped it into the side of his backpack before taking Damian’s hand. 

“By the way,” said Jon, “you never told me your favorite word.”

“Read the message again,” Damian said.

Outside, two cars were parked side-by-side. Standing beside a blue station wagon was Jon’s mother, still in her beige work pantsuit; standing beside a sleek black sports car was a woman with long hair and an elegant green dress. 

“Mom!” Jon raced forward and leaped into his mother’s arms. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

She ruffled his hair and glanced at Damian, smiling. “I think I might have an idea.”

“How was your day, _ibn_?” the other woman—Damian’s mother, Jon assumed—asked.

“It was adequate,” Damian replied.

“Did you enjoy my mooncake?”

“It was great!” Jon piped. “You should make more, Ms. Damian’s Mom.”

Jon’s mother raised an eyebrow. “And my cookies?”

“They were splendid,” Damian answered. 

Damian’s mother looked at Jon. “I see you have made a friend,” she said to her son.

“Actually,” Damian corrected, “he is my _habibi_.”

She nodded approvingly. “Even better.”


End file.
